Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Late spring had become Dean’s newest enemy.

Not because Alamina was particularly hot.

The palace gardens had only just moved fully into bloom, the mountain air still cool enough in the mornings that the terraces remained pleasant, and most people continued carrying light jackets after sunset.

Dean, however, was apparently running several degrees warmer than the rest of the country.

He stood in front of the dressing-room mirror that morning and regarded his clothes with growing resentment.

At eighteen weeks, the pregnancy was no longer something he could conceal simply by standing carefully.

There was a bump. Not enormous. Certainly not enough that a stranger would immediately assume pregnancy beneath the right clothing.

Unfortunately, Dean’s usual style involved fitted trousers, narrow waists, and formal shirts and coats designed specifically to emphasize rather than disguise his slight build.

Most of those now betrayed him immediately.

He tugged the hem of a loose cream shirt lower and turned sideways.

The curve remained visible.

Dean frowned.

Behind him, Arion leaned against the dressing-room doorway in black trousers and a dark green shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. He had been watching this process for several minutes with the patience of someone who knew intervention would be dangerous.

"Say nothing."

"I wasn’t going to."

"You were thinking something."

"I am frequently thinking."

Dean looked at him through the mirror.

Pregnancy had done something peculiar to his relationship with internal restraint.

Apparently the part of his brain responsible for asking whether a thought should become speech had quietly resigned several months ago.

If he thought Arion looked good, Arion heard it.

If a minister irritated him, there was now an excellent chance the minister heard that too.

If Dean disliked a proposal, decorative decision, diplomatic excuse, meal, scent, fabric, chair, weather condition, or person standing too close to him, subtlety had become almost impossible.

The palace communications team had discovered this during a charity briefing six weeks earlier.

One advisor had suggested Dean describe a particularly pointless initiative as ambitious.

Dean had looked at the prepared speech and said, "It’s wasteful, overpriced, and whoever approved the projected staffing numbers cannot count."

The communications director had gone pale.

Arion had laughed for nearly five minutes afterward.

The PR team now preferred Dean photographed rather than quoted.

Dean considered that cowardice.

He turned away from the mirror.

"I look pregnant."

Arion’s gaze dropped openly to his stomach.

"Yes."

Dean narrowed his eyes.

"That was not permission to look pleased."

"I don’t require permission."

The answer would have irritated him if Arion had not looked so profoundly satisfied every time the bump became more obvious.

Dean sighed and reached for a lightweight overshirt in muted grey.

It concealed enough without looking suspicious.

At six months they would announce the pregnancy officially.

Until then, the palace was relying on controlled appearances, careful tailoring, and the widespread assumption that Dean had simply adopted looser clothing after months of travel.

The deception was becoming increasingly optimistic.

Boreas entered the dressing room while Dean fastened his cuffs.

The enormous dog walked directly past Arion and pressed himself against Dean’s leg.

"That is unnecessary."

Boreas looked up at him.

Dean rubbed behind one heavy ear.

Months had changed the strange behavior around Arion too.

Boreas no longer growled when vetiver entered the room.

He had gradually adapted, first tolerating small amounts, then returning to sleeping near Arion’s chair and demanding attention exactly as he had before Snake Island.

He still preferred Dean now. Aggressively. If Dean sat, Boreas lay against his feet.

If Dean moved rooms, Boreas followed.

At night, he had developed the irritating habit of checking Dean twice before settling near the bedroom doors.

Victor found it interesting.

Dean found it impossible to walk anywhere without seventy kilograms of dog attempting to become his shadow.

Arion crouched and scratched beneath Boreas’s jaw.

The dog accepted it calmly.

"You’ve forgiven him," Dean said.

Boreas leaned into Arion’s hand.

"Mostly."

Arion looked up.

"He has?"

"He still likes me better."

"He always liked you."

"That is not what you said before we married."

"I was protecting my dignity."

Dean smiled.

Then his stomach shifted. A small flutter beneath his shirt.

He stopped.

Arion noticed immediately.

"What?"

Dean pressed his palm against the curve.

"Nothing dramatic. The baby moved."

Arion was beside him before Dean finished speaking.

Dean stared at him.

"You were three meters away."

"Yes."

"You crossed that distance like I announced labor."

Arion placed his hand against Dean’s stomach anyway.

Dean let him.

The baby had become increasingly active over the previous two weeks, though apparently he possessed a sense of humor and frequently stopped the moment Arion tried to feel anything.

Today, however, there was another faint movement.

Arion’s expression changed.

Dean watched him rather than his own stomach.

"That was they."

"I felt it."

"You look shocked every time."

Arion’s hand remained there.

Dean smiled and adjusted the grey overshirt around it.

"Come on. We’re going to be late."

They had an appointment. One Dean had been waiting for with unreasonable impatience.

Eighteen weeks meant better imaging, a more detailed anatomical scan, and, assuming their child cooperated, the possibility of finally learning the sex.

The medical board had offered genetic screening earlier.

Dean had refused the answer.

He wanted to see.

Arion had agreed because, by that stage of pregnancy, Arion agreed with almost anything Dean wanted as long as it involved no measurable danger.

Dean had tested that privilege extensively.

The private medical wing was cool enough that Dean almost forgave the weather by the time they arrived.

Seven met them outside the imaging suite.

His gaze went immediately to Dean’s clothes.

"You’re hiding it poorly."

Dean stared at him.

"You are a doctor. You know what is under the shirt."

"I’m commenting aesthetically."

"That makes it worse."

Seven opened the door.

Arion’s hand settled against Dean’s lower back as they entered.

Dean glanced over his shoulder.

"You know I can walk, yet you still follow me everywhere."

"Yes."

"You’re becoming furniture at this point."

"Useful furniture."

Dean considered that.

"Expensive furniture."

Seven shut the door behind them.

"This is why the communications team doesn’t let him speak publicly anymore."

Dean pointed at him.

"They begged. There is a difference."

The examination room was softly lit, the larger diagnostic screen already prepared beside the bed. Dean climbed onto it and pushed his shirt upward without waiting for assistance.

Arion took the chair beside him.

Naturally close enough that their knees touched.

The obstetric specialist entered moments later, greeted them, reviewed the latest blood work, and began the scan.

The familiar grey shapes appeared across the screen.

Dean still did not understand half of what he saw without explanation.

Everything measured within expected ranges.

Dean’s fingers tightened around Arion’s.

Then the physician smiled.

"Would you still like to know?"

Dean looked immediately at Arion.

Arion’s gold eyes remained on the screen.

"Yes," Dean said.

The physician adjusted the image.

"Your son is making it particularly easy."

Dean stopped breathing for half a second.

A boy.

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